


Heart on a Trigger

by MagpieMinx (CardinalFox)



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Mentions of Holocaust Denial, Mentions of anti-Semitism, Smoking, mentions of canon-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:04:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CardinalFox/pseuds/MagpieMinx
Summary: Flip comes home, agitated and disturbed.  You comfort him, then he comforts you.





	Heart on a Trigger

There’s something wrong.  Flip smokes, yes, but he doesn’t chain smoke the way he’s been doing tonight and you don’t know what to make of it.  He’s not listening to a word you’ve been saying, just staring into the middle distance somewhere behind your head, his eyes tight and dark.  His hands are steady, but his cigarette’s filter oval shaped from holding it between his fingers too tightly. There’s tension in the set of his massive shoulders, and they’re curved slightly, defensively, as if he’s trying to protect himself.

You let yourself trail off and eat a few bites of your dinner, take a sip of your water, and then suddenly Flip’s eyes refocus and sharpen.  He studies you for a moment, taking in your body language, trying to figure out why you’re suddenly silent, and then he clears his throat and taps the ash off his cigarette into the ashtray on the table.  “Sorry, you were saying?”

You take another sip of your water, moistening your mouth as you consider how to approach the subject.  Obviously, something must have happened at the station today, there wasn’t enough time for Flip to have gone anywhere between work and home.  The time he arrived told you that he left the station a little earlier than usual and he was smoking when he walked in the door. He’s always calmer when he’s had a cigarette or two, no matter what’s happened.  He’s calm enough now, if tense, but he’s also  _ still _ smoking.  You swallow your water and then ask, “So what happened today?”

“Investigation,” Flip says, but his voice is tight, guarded, “Nothing you need to worry about.”

“You haven’t stopped smoking since you got home, and you walked in with a stub,” you point out, “So you’ve been smoking since you left the station,  _ and _ you came home earlier than normal.”

“I said it’s nothing you need to worry about,” Flip repeats, his voice rising, looking at you like you’ve betrayed him.  He looks wounded, and instinctively you know that only the smallest piece of that is actually about you  _ seeing _ him.  Something is happening in this investigation that he’s barely talked to you about and it’s riding home on his shoulders, in the back of his head.

“I’m not worried about it,” you say, softening your tone to soothe him, “But you seem… upset.”

Flip looks away and takes a long drag off his cigarette, pushing his empty plate aside as he stalls for time.  When he looks up at you again, he’s squinting slightly, trying to figure out if you’re going to let this go, if he wants to tell you what happened today.  He looks down at the table again and you sigh, resigning yourself to not knowing and not being able to help when he startles you by saying, “I was gathering intel today, went to a gathering.  The president took my word for everything, but one of the members wanted to show me something.”

You take another sip of water to feign nonchalance although you’re concerned because you have a hunch where this is going.  Whoever this member was, he tried to pull Flip away from the main group, suggesting that he wasn’t really buying whatever Flip was saying to convince the group’s president.  Flip rakes a big hand through his dark hair and taps the ash off his cigarette into the tray again, saying, “He took me into a room and locked the president out, drew his gun and told me to sit down.  He had a polygraph.”

You can feel how pale you’ve gotten by the cold, clammy feeling of your face, the hollow feeling in your stomach like you’re on a roller coaster and you’ve just hit the first drop.  You let go of your water and surreptitiously drop your hands into your lap so Flip won’t see how they’re shaking as you realize how close he came to death today. You swallow and try your best to keep your voice level as you ask, “Why did he have a polygraph?”

“Don’t know, but he wanted to use it to find out if I was Jewish,” Flip says, sounding shaken for the first time in a long time, “I knew I wasn’t going to pass that test.  If he hadn’t had the gun, maybe. He even wanted to see my dick.”

“Jesus,” is all you can say, and your voice sounds weak even to your own ears.  You’re afraid that Flip will pick up on it, but he’s lost in his thoughts again and he doesn’t notice.

“He said that he thought the Holocaust was a lie, just propaganda and shit, and-”  Flip hesitates for the first time, no longer just shaken, but ashamed, “I tried to get him to back off by saying it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard of.  It didn’t work.”

“Oh,” you say, suddenly understanding why Flip seems so stressed.  You can’t imagine the toll it must have taken on him to play the role he had to play, knowing all the while that these men would have probably killed him if they’d only known.  It goes deeper than that, though, otherwise Flip wouldn’t be so torn up over it. You know that Flip wasn’t raised Jewish, his family celebrated Hanukkah  _ and _ Christmas when he was growing up, but having to say that the genocide of the Jewish people was  _ beautiful _ ? 

“Ron threw a rock through the window and nearly got shot as he was driving away,” Flip continues, “Everyone ran up and onto the street, and I had to take a gun from someone.  I shot at the pavement behind the car, but fuckin’ rookie almost got us both killed today.” He takes a long, frustrated drag off his cigarette, then stubs it out on the ashtray as he angrily blows the smoke off to the side.

“I’m glad you’re both okay,” you say cautiously, but Flip isn’t done and goes on as if he hasn’t heard you.

“We had a talk in the records room after we met with the sergeant.  I said for me it was just a job, for him it’s a crusade, and that’s true, but he asked why I hadn’t bought in to the assignment.  Why I was acting like I didn’t have skin in the game. I told him that was my business.”

“It is your business,” you say gently, trying to absorb everything that you’ve heard and wondering what Flip is going to do with all of it.  He’s disturbed by the investigation, and it sounds to you like it’s far from over. You don’t know how things will be progressing, but you wonder how much they’ll affect Flip.  

You reach out across the table and brush your fingers over the back of his hand, and though he starts and looks slightly alarmed, his expression becomes sad as he turns his hand over and takes yours.  His palm is half again as large as yours is, and as he folds his fingers around your hand, you feel dwarfed. Still, he’s holding onto you and he’s looking at you and he’s actually with you now, not in his head, not in the memories of what happened today.  You offer him a sympathetic smile and squeeze his hand, and he strokes the backs of your fingers with his thumb.

“I never used to think about being Jewish, but today…” he trails off, swallows hard, and then finishes with, “Today it was all I could think about.”  His voice has gone soft and it breaks your heart a little bit that he has to put himself through this just to carry on with the investigation. Flip is no quitter, you know he won’t drop the case, and in any case, if Flip backs out of this case for personal reasons, there might not be another in with these people.  

“I know you know this already,” you say tentatively, “But just because you have to say those things to convince them… it doesn’t mean that you mean them.”

“I know, and I don’t, but just-”  Flip inhales sharply, suddenly gritting his teeth, “He said that the Holocaust never happened!  My grandparents immigrated because of what was happening in Europe! Six million people were murdered, six million  _ Jews _ -” Flip bangs his fist on the table, rattling the dishes and making you jump, “and they want to kill the rest of us!”

Despite how much Flip banging the table like that scared you, you don’t miss the way he switches from objectivity to identity, from facts to  _ us _ .  Your chest hurts for him even if your head can’t comprehend the enormity of it, of denial in the face of all the evidence that came out of the liberation at the end of the second world war, in the face of Flip’s own family history.  You can’t imagine what that must mean to Flip, whose grandparents escaped, but who likely has other relatives he’s never met who didn’t. 

“Flip,” you say, and though your voice isn’t very loud, it gets his attention, breaks him from his fury.  He’s scowling at you, but he’s looking at you, waiting. The problem is that you don’t know what to  _ say _ to any of it.  You open your mouth, but the only thing that comes out is, “I’m sorry, Flip.”

Flip pulls up short, his face going from furious to confused in the space of a second as he asks, “Sorry for what?”

“All of it,” you say, feeling your throat starting to close up, the urge to cry causing your eyes to burn and your vision to blur, “That’s-  Flip, it’s  _ awful _ and you shouldn’t have to deal with it.  You shouldn’t have to say those things, this shouldn’t be your case.”

Flip slumps in his chair, his grip on your hand tightening as he grimaces.  “It is my case now, Babydoll, you know I can’t just abandon it. The Klan-”

Your audible gasp cuts him off and he bites out a sharp, self-loathing “Fuck!” that tells you that he didn’t mean to tell you that.  You’d known he was infiltrating a hate group, but the  _ Klan _ ?  Flip is raking his fingers through his hair again, looking down at the table and taking deep breaths as he closes his eyes and tries to collect himself.  You cling to his hand, pull on it, trying to make him look at you.

“You weren’t going to tell me?” you ask, trying to hide your rising terror.

“No, I  _ told _ you, you have nothing to worry about,” Flip says, pushing his hair back from his face in a way that tells you he’s agitated, “It’s fine.  The rookie and I have it under control.”

You don’t remind him that he said that he and Ron almost got themselves killed today, but you do give him a look that he has the sense to look abashed at.  He makes a face and then says, “Forget that I said that.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you respond, making a similar face, “I won’t ask if you don’t want me to, but… Flip, I already wonder if you’re coming home sometimes.”  Your voice cracks, going raw halfway through the single syllable of ‘if’.

Flip squeezes your hand and tugs on your arm, getting your attention and when he speaks, his voice is gentle, “Hey, hey, Babydoll, I know-”  He stops himself, his mouth twisting as you tear up again, your breathing suddenly ragged. “Babydoll, you know my job is dangerous.”

“I know,” you respond, your voice small, scared.  Your voice is the voice of a child scared that they’re about to lose someone, and some days that’s exactly what you feel like.  “And I know you love your job. Just… be careful, okay?”

Flip gets up, awkwardly pushing his chair back and jostling the table in the process because he’s still holding onto your hand.  He comes around the table and uses his knee to push your chair out from under the table and only then does he shake his hand free of yours.  He bends down, slides one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifts you off the chair with a soft grunt of effort, and then he carries you away from the dining room and into the living area.  You curl up tighter against his broad chest, your arms around his neck, pressing your forehead against his cheek.

He sits on the couch, settling you into his lap, gathering you up and holding you close, rocking you gently.  You’re quiet as you lean into him, wanting the affection, craving the closeness. Flip is more physical than not, but right now you need it and you suspect he does too, even if he’s the one comforting you.  You huddle against his body, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He sighs against your scalp, twisting to kiss your hair, rubs your back with one big, warm hand, trying to soothe you.

“I know you warned me, but sometimes it still-”  You don’t know how to finish that sentence, so you change it and say, “Sometimes I’m still scared that you’re not coming home.  That I’m going to hear a knock and I’m going to open the door and see two officers on the doorstep-”

“Shhhhh,” Flip shushes you, murmuring, “I know, Babydoll.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” you mumble against his neck, “I love you.”

“I know you do, Babydoll, and I know how lucky I am to have you,” Flip says softly, stroking your hair, “The luckiest damn guy in the country.”

“You promise to be careful?” you ask, lifting your head and sniffling, trying to blink away your tears.  Flip gives you a lopsided smile, lifting his hand when a tear starts rolling down your cheek so he can rub it away with his thumb.

“I’m always careful as long as someone else isn’t doing something stupid,” he says with a chuckle, and you pout.

“Flip, I’m serious,” you say, pressing on his chest with one hand, “Even if someone’s being stupid.”

“Yeah, Babydoll, I promise,” he says, and then leans in for a kiss.

“You don’t always keep your promises,” you say stubbornly, mumbling the words against his lips before kissing him properly.  HIs lips are full and soft, warm on your own, slightly chapped, his facial hair rubbing against your chin.

“Maybe not,” he admits, “But I’ll try harder to keep this one, okay?”

“Okay,” you sigh as he moves in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from The Cab's song Angel With A Shotgun, which felt really appropriate for the mood of the fic.
> 
> I saw BlackkKlansman yesterday and it was such a great movie about racism and how racism today definitely has its origins in the racism of yesteryear and how it's definitely still _here_. It's a really great movie and I definitely suggest going to see it or watching it once it's online. 
> 
> Adam also looks like a brick house in it and wears lots of plaid and wears his shoulder holster and shoots guns in it, which I was very much a fan of.
> 
> I wanted to portray Flip here as suffering from a moral injury aka a traumatic experience in which he feels he's betrayed his own moral conscience. After watching the movie, I came away with a very firm belief that there was no way that being undercover for that investigation wasn't damaging to Flip's mental and emotional health. Even if he wasn't raised Jewish, it was still a part of his identity and in the film he mentions how he starts thinking about that part of himself constantly.
> 
> As per usual, you can find me on tumblr [here](https://www.magpieminx.tumblr.com).


End file.
